Angel had lived in the despair of losing someone she called a close friend.
Though their time together had only lasted three short months, the bond they built was nothing short of real. Zhang had become more than just a housemate or a patient—he had become her anchor, someone she had quietly grown to care for more than she was willing to admit. And now, he was gone.
Gone, like a passing breeze that had once filled a room with warmth and had now slipped through her fingers, leaving behind only the haunting scent of memory.
Angel stood still as the final clumps of red earth fell onto the casket. The air was heavy with dust and grief, thick with the solemnity of the ceremony. Her hands trembled, fingers clenched tightly around a folded white handkerchief stained with tears that refused to stop.
She hadn't cried like this before. Not when she failed exams. Not when her heart had been broken by sweet lies. Not even when she left home for the first time.
But now, at this moment—she wept.
Wept like a child stripped of innocence.
Wept like someone who had lost a part of her soul.
She dropped to her knees beside the grave as the Igbo dirge filled the air, ancient, melancholic, filled with the weight of generations.
Mourners sang softly, women ululated from a distance, their cries rising like incense. The priests had finished. The final blessings had been spoken.
Still, Angel remained. She dug her fingers into the soil as if trying to hold on to the one person who had made her feel seen in a world that often looked away.
"I should have done more…" she whispered, her voice cracking as her shoulders shook violently. "I should've kept him safe. I should've…"
Sophia, her cousin, reached for her gently, trying to pull her back. But Angel resisted, curling in on herself as if the pain was too much to bear. The sky above dimmed, the sun hiding behind grey clouds that mirrored her despair. This wasn't just grief.
This was guilt.
This was heartbreak.
The ceremony was concluded. Zhang was finally laid to rest in full traditional rites—okwa ozu, iri ozu, and the breaking of kola for his journey to the ancestors. His white coffin, trimmed with deep red and gold patterns, was a final gesture of dignity after the undignified way he had been treated in life.
Ironically, it was only in death that Zhang Bing was honored properly.
His biological family—who had abandoned him without hesitation upon hearing his pancreatic cancer diagnosis—had returned only to claim the body. Their reasons were neither holy nor humane. It was about money. Compensation. Condolence envelopes from well-wishers, business associates, and politicians.
Their tears were dry.
Their words, hollow.
Angel had fought to keep Zhang's dignity intact. From hospital bills to sleepless nights. And though she had no blood ties to him, she ensured he received a farewell that even his family could not take from him.
Elsewhere:-
Miara remained smug, her beauty carefully powdered, her smile always camera-ready. She still walked into hospital corridors like she was filming a scene, her crocodile tears expertly timed, her words dramatic yet empty.
She was playing a role—an award-worthy one, if awards were given to those who could fake love at the bedside of a comatose man for profit.
Together with her secret boyfriend, a man whose charm was as dangerous as his schemes, they had orchestrated an elaborate con—pretending to be Zhang Bing's fiancée, grieving, loyal, and deserving of any financial 'gratitude' that might come their way if he died.
But not everyone was fooled.
Mianman, Zhang's sharp-eyed secretary, had been watching quietly. She had her suspicions, and over time, she had collected enough evidence to confront them—but she played it slow. Smart. Carefully keeping them at bay, away from the critical records and the hidden documents Zhang had protected before falling into a coma.
What she couldn't protect, however, was Angel's heart.
Far from the burial…
A woman sat under a crystal chandelier, her features elegant, her eyes sharp as glass. Her nails clicked against the edge of a document. A thin file, unassuming, unimpressive. Local. Unimportant.
Yet something inside it intrigued her.
"There seems to be a girl in mourning," a quiet male voice reported. "I heard a burial has been conducted."
"In the same country?" Her voice was smooth, detached, yet filled with curiosity.
The man nodded.
She took another look at the photo attached to the report. A young woman—eyes swollen from crying, face bare of makeup, yet something about her posture whispered of resilience.
'She's something else,' the woman thought to herself.
Her eyes didn't blink as she spoke again.
"A thorough background check on the girl. The family. The friends. The city. Every strand of information, every whisper on the street. I want it."
She turned slightly toward the man still standing before her, unmoving.
"Don't miss even a hair. Otherwise…"
She let the silence speak.
And he understood.
In the dim light of the ICU…
Machines beeped steadily, their rhythm the only sign that life still lingered in the still form of the man they all hoped would wake.
Zhang Bing lay unblinking, his body unmoving. A celebrated celebrity, adored by millions. His fans hadn't left the hospital doors since the news broke. They lit candles. Sent flowers. Recorded voice messages that nurses played softly by his bedside every morning.
He didn't flinch. Didn't stir. But he was there. Somewhere in the space between sleep and eternity.
Zhang Jie, his sister, stepped quietly into the room. Her eyes fell on the fragile body of her brother. Tubes ran along his arms. A monitor traced the fragile line of his heartbeat. The soft hum of machines was all she could hear.
She sat down beside him, her hands trembling slightly.
She'd come here every day, watching him, waiting. Praying.
And just when her heart was starting to lose hope, something happened.
His fingers twitched.
Barely there—like the flicker of a candle about to die.
But she saw it.
She didn't scream.
Didn't rush out in panic.
Instead, she smiled. A small, tearful smile. One that said: I see you. I believe you're coming back to me.
She picked up her phone with calm, decisive hands. Dialed a single number.
The line connected.
Her voice was steady. Certain.
"Come in now."
And she hung up.